The Spaces between Words
by Crimson Sun
Summary: Drabble collection. 8 - Tseng and Aerith run into some trouble.
1. In the mood: Aerith, Hojo

She should not have been there that night, a sea away from home with a villain on the run, but she was there anyway. All she knew was that the dance floor was intoxicating, and she had not danced, truly, for more than half her life. The ballroom was a nice blend of old and new fashions - a chandelier with electric lights that dimmed on command. A deejay with his equipment on the sparkling golden dancefloor, wearing a blue bow tie with his black suit. The whole place was lively and friendly and warm and loud and all those other things her life was not. People everywhere. Movement. Sound. The smell of cocktails and ginger ale and sweat.

That red dress she bought at Sector Six to seduce the Don, the strapless velvet one - she'd only worn that once.It felt good to have it back on; it carried the sense of senseless adventure still.

He should not have been there that night either, a continent away from his lab with his son on the run, but he was there anyway, wearing a red blazer that, freakishly, matched the colour of her dress. As she walzed over to him through the crowd, eyes full of amusement and only a little bit of wariness, she realised someone with delicate fingers had plaited his long ponytail, and that only made her burst into giggles.

He smiled a little too, more with embarrassment. Caught. Now she'll never respect him again. Not that she ever did.

"Care to dance?" She offered first, knowing well that true ladies were never meant to make the first move. But tonight - just for tonight - Aerith was no lady.

"Only if I lead." He answered, thinking of that old song that sang something about the gracelessness of scientists. But tonight - just for her - Hojo was no scientist.


	2. What if?: Hojo, Gast, Aerith, Sephiroth

Be calm, he told himself. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Behind him, the children huddled on the topmost step of the stairs, observing him with quiet curiosity. Two pairs of green eyes burned into the back of his neck.

On the coffee table in front of him were two mugs of hot tea. There was a little puddle of tea on the table itself too, spilt by the shaking hands of the woman who laid the mugs down.

And on the other side of the table, Gast sat in a squashy armchair, contemplating him with a level gaze. Behind the man's glasses were frustration and confusion, but that awful amount of understanding and tolerance still remained. The old scientist was waiting, his hands clasped together between his knees, still wearing the snow-pants in which he had first greeted his unexpected visitor on the doorstep of his Icicle home.

The fire in the fireplace crackled. The ticking of the clock was maddeningly rhythmic.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Hojo cleared his throat, reached for the mug, found it too hot, and returned his hand to his lap.

He bit his lip.

After a while, Gast sighed.

"Aerith? Sephiroth? Come down here for a second." He called. Tiny footsteps pitter-pattered down the stairs in twos and fours. Two pairs of green eyes stared up at Hojo unabashed from their new position behind the coffee table. Gast put a hand on one shoulder of each of the two youngsters.

"This is an old friend of daddy's." He said softly, smiling down on them. "His name is Simon. You can say hi to uncle Simon, instead of gawking so rudely at him like that. Go on, say hi."

"Hi uncle Simon." They chorused.

Hojo made an odd noise at the back of his throat. Breathing had suddenly become very difficult.

"Sephiroth here just turned five about a week ago." Gast continued, ruffling the silver hair of the older child. "He's about to attend the local school, but he can already read like a big boy, so we're very proud of him."

"Really..." Hojo attempted a smile too, but it came out more like a grimace. "So you like to read, Sephiroth?"

"Yeah." Eyes shone with the unnatural intelligence. Shone the way his mother's eyes used to shine.

"And...do you like it here...with you mom and dad?"

"Yeah." He answered again, then poked out a tongue at the toddler with the amber curls next to him. "Could do without Aerith, though."

The little girl mimicked him and hugged Gast's knee, pouting. Her father put a tender, protective hand on her head, and Hojo watched her grin unfold like a flower.

"Now, now. Do that often and one day your tongues will freeze outside your mouths." Gast gently scolded. "Why don't you two go outside and finish that snowman army you were making? Daddy and uncle Simon have a lot of catching up to do."

The kids went obediently. From outside came the sound of their laughter and shouts, evidence they were enjoying more of a snow battle than a cooperative building game.

Hojo reached for the mug that had cooled, and took a gulp of tea that was still too hot. The clock ticked, and Gast's eyes were locked onto his again.

"So." The older man said. "What is it you've come to say?"

---

Written in response to the prompt 'what if...?' on LJ community oldschoolff7. I have a feeling most of these drabbles are going to be Hojo-orientated.


	3. Christmas is not a Shinra holiday: Turks

Christmas is not a Shinra Holiday...

There was shouting coming from his office - much more shouting than should come out of a Turk's office on a weekday. Okay, so it was Christmas day, but it was still a weekday, which meant it was still a workday, and not a time for the unprofessional antics that usually accompanied the so-called 'holiday spirit'.

Tseng paused outside, with his hand holding the keycard poised above its slot, listening. Yes, the shouting was definitely Reno's. He caught occassional squeals coming from Elena too, but the silent Rude was probably also in on whatever action was going on in there. From the calls of 'YES! Five-two, take THAT!', they were playing some kind of game. Tseng sighed. It's lucky for them Heidegger hadn't suddenly decided to take a stroll down this department, or else there probably wouldn't be Christmas turkey for anyone this year.

Breathing deep, Tseng opened the door.

And walked into a net.

Upon closer inspection, it was a badminton net. One end was tied to a stack of chairs, and the other to the blinds of the windows. The office was a mess - the tables had been pushed to the sides of the room, there were papers on the floor, and Christmas decorations had been draped willy-nilly over all the office equipment.

And in the middle of it all was a badminton net. On either side were his two prize Turks, armed with rackets and trying to hit the shuttle with the smallest force possible, so that it just went over the net. Reno had taken both his blazer and his white shirt off, and was jumping from foot to foot in a dirty singlet, spinning his racket. Rude had only disgarded his sunglasses, but his bald head was gleaming with persperation. Elena had seated herself cross-legged on one of the tables, watching with an expression halfway between amusement and anxiety.

It was a miracle they hadn't noticed him. Tseng decided to make his presence known.

"Um..."

Elena jumped up, and immediately turned red.

"Sir!"

And stood there, apparently at a complete loss for words.

"What..are you doing?"

"Practicing our small-serves, boss!" Reno answered promptly, but remained deep in concentration. His shuttle grazed the net, rolled over the top, and dropped neatly to the floor on the other side. "YES! SIX-TWO!"

"Er...we - they thought...because it's Christmas..." Elena was still searching for that elusive excuse, now forming elaborate loops with her hands.

"It wasn't a holiday on the Shinra calender, so we decided to take matters into our own hands." Reno picked up the shuttle and served again. Rude had taken a moment to send a nod in Tseng's direction, but seemed otherwise fully occupied.

Tseng stood for a moment, following the shuttle with his eyes, watching it go up and down over the net and admiring the quick footwork from both men, which must come from all the training they'd received as professional assassins. Though whether this was the best way to put training to use, he wasn't so sure. Elena remained standing, looking at him almost desperately for any change in expression that might indicate displeasure, and having quite forgotten the match in front of her.

After Reno had shouted 'EIGHT-THREE!', Tseng decided enough was enough. He ran a hand over his lips.

"Elena."

"Yes sir!"

"Want to play the next round?"

--

Written for Margy, my FFVII prodigy, who I introduced FFVII to that fateful yr11 English class, with crudely drawn stick-figures of the main characters and a diagram of Midgar with only six reactors. Now Margy and I have taken discussions of FFVII to a new art, and I am ever so proud of her. loves


	4. Kids: Tseng, Rufus

In the end, everything numbs to a placid comfort, even impulses that were - had been, would have been, would never be - violent.

Tseng played best man at Rufus Shinra's tidy unpublicised wedding, thinking: It is much easier to let go of something that had not been his to begin with.

And besides, he could not possibly have offered Rufus so _much_, watching the younger man share a patch of sun with his strawberry blond, blue-eyed bundle of new blood and pride while she babbles recently acquired and meaningless words. The president's smile had become an unconscious reflex, at last. Tseng, a Turk who could give his life on command, could not have given him that.

"Unckie Den!"

He scoops the five-year-old canonball into his arms and raises her over his head, delighted with her shriek of laughter. She's clothed in blue and gold today, untouched by her father's habit of dress just as she is unmarked by his worldview. The ribbon in her hair, today, everyday, is a soft pastel pink, a gift from Tseng that Rufus had quietly allowed without comment.

"It's _Tseng_, darling." Rufus says lazily from his position on the carpet, a city of toys scattered around him. "Uncle _Tseng_."

"It's fine," Tseng chuckles, placing a kiss on the little girl's forehead - she who is living proof of silver linings. "She can call me whatever she likes."


	5. Fugitives: Tseng, Aerith

Tseng knows better than anyone that their situation is only temporary, this existence of inverted day and night, night and day. Tseng is used to living to the count of miliseconds, sleeping in the time it takes normal people to blink, skipping between continents as effortlessly as skipping rope, shuffling though decks of fake identification and leaving no trail, paper or human, behind him.

Be that as it may... Tseng had always been alone.

But Aerith is nothing if not determined, is she?

For now, they are in Icicle; Tseng cannot say for how long they will stay. Aerith lights candles to plant in the snow over her father's grave - red and orange like Reno's ridiculous hair dye of choice, and Tseng's hand twitches unconsciously over the concealed bulk of his gun even as he smiles in fondness. _When_, he thinks, not _if_. Shinra's bloodhounds never lose the scent - Tseng himself had made sure of that.

Aerith stands, brushes herself off and turns around. The snow makes a halo around the crown of her head and blurs the spaces between her lashes. There are minute crystals of ice on her lips when she kisses him, and in that moment - in all such moments - the doubts melt from his mind.

Tomorrow - or perhaps the day after - they will pack their meagre belongings and be one step ahead again.


	6. Caught: Hojo, Gast

_(Exactly 100 words. Written to the prompt 'switching places')_

Sephiroth's hair is dyed from birth; white roots on black a defiance to age and reason. Hojo, grey at the temples with the strain of repentance, would watch the child catch snow on his tongue and think – yes, this is how things _should_ be. Icicle is cold sterility after a storm, white like the walls Hojo knows so well – the walls Sephiroth would never see.

But the boundaries of their prison are not physically defined, which, after seven years of tranquility, is something Hojo often forgets.

He hears the door open; turns as Lucrecia screams.

"Simon," Gast's voice, "I'm sorry."


	7. Flower: Ifalna, Hojo

_(Exactly 200 words. Written to the prompt 'bad company')_

"This certainly is…spectacular," says the voice behind her. Ifalna feels rather than hears the soft snap as a flower breaks at the stem.

She turns, expression impassive. Hojo twists the bloom between thumb and forefinger, observing her over a pair of glasses fogged by the humidity in the greenhouse. She gives him half a smile; feels earth between her palms as she clenches her hands together.

"I didn't know you liked plants."

"My interest is in the extraordinary," the scientist answers quietly. "Which you certainly are, to be able to keep such an impressive garden."

"A green thumb is nothing extraordinary, professor." Ifalna watches the flower trapped in the man's vacant gesture - a whirl of dead, vibrant colour. "All you need is patience and some basic knowledge of soil biology."

"Really." The stem spins faster as Hojo grins, making her feel mildly sick. "Surely it requires other talents? I doubt any patience or knowledge on _my_ part could cultivate a species believed to have been extinct for twenty years."

The colour drains from her face as the flower falls from his hand, his smile as much a lie as hers.

"But you're full of _surprises_, aren't you, Miss Ifalna?"


	8. Fugitives2: Tseng, Aerith

"I didn't tell you," she says, voice calm below moth-eaten patience, "Because I knew what you'd say."

Tseng stares. The city speeds past in all directions around them, man and woman stationed suddenly at the epicenter of chaotic movement. Aerith's aqua eyes trail after the train leaving their platform, sympathising with its groan of abject reluctance.

Her hands, knotted at her belly, are already protective.

"Aerith," Tseng finally starts, more afraid than he had ever been in that uniform of permanent mourning-

"We can't," they say, simultaneously.

"You're right," Aerith breathes in deep, looking up as the world falls down, "I _know_."


End file.
